


Merry Fucking Christmas, Stiles

by totallyrandom



Series: Melancholidays [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Christmas, Derek's Loft, High School Student Stiles Stilinski, Holidays, Lonely Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Pre-Slash, Stiles-centric, Underage Drinking, hating the holidays, unhappy holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallyrandom/pseuds/totallyrandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is having a shitty Christmas all by himself except for a bottle of whiskey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Fucking Christmas, Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, this is not a happy fic. But sometimes it’s comforting to know that you’re not the only one having a shitty day. Especially on the holidays.

Stiles is pretty sure this is the worst fucking Christmas. Ever. _Really_. Worse than the year his mom died, even. Worse than the year Scott was bitten. _Worst. fucking. Christmas._  

Everything is falling apart around him. And his mom is still dead, so that never really gets better. The loss is a dull ache rather than a knife to the heart, sure. But it’s never good. It’s never ok. It’s just a little less bad sometimes. You know, by comparison. 

This year it’s losing Scott that’s splitting him open. And his dad some, too. His dad who loves and trusts _Scott_. But not Stiles. Not anymore. 

He’s got nothing left. _No one_ left. Fuck, even when Malia’s here--she _isn’t_ right now, but even when she _is_ \--he doesn’t really have her. She has him, though. Like a fucking chew toy to carry around. He’s not gonna complain about the orgasms and the way she’s physically protective of him. That’s kind of nice sometimes, to have someone with fangs who’ll throw themselves into danger for him. To protect him. Like he’s worth protecting. Even if it’s just because they’re territorial. 

Yeah, it’s nice having someone at his back again, even if it’s just because Malia’s possessive as fuck. He can pretend sometimes that he matters. That he’s the most important person to someone. Even if it’s just because she doesn’t really have anyone else. 

Stiles is so fucking over this town. He’s over all this high school hellhole bullshit. He can’t believe that at the beginning of the semester he was all sad about losing touch when they graduated. Now he thinks maybe that day can’t come fast enough. If he’s gonna lose everyone he cares about, it would hurt less at least if he could pretend it’s just because they’re all the way across the country. Not because of this wolfy shit. Not because they just don’t want him anymore. Trust him anymore. Love him anymore.

So, yeah. _Worst fucking Christmas_. And everything about today makes it worse. Cheery fucking Christmas carols everywhere. Fake snow making it look like this isn’t California, that global climate change isn’t real, that they’re not living in a town that actively tries to kill him every fucking week. 

Ignorant fucking happy people all over town enjoying their wassail* with their happy families, having no fucking idea how lucky they are. How hard he fights so they’ll never have to know. 

His dad’s working a double, of course. He pretends that he’s just being a good boss and letting his deputies go home to their little ones. Because he’d never actually say _out loud_ that he doesn’t want another shitty, burnt Christmas dinner for two making it really obvious how permanently broken their family is. 

Kira texts him: _Merry Christmas_. He’s glad no one’s around to hear the choked sound that claws its way from his mouth. He types back: _You too!_ and throws the phone out of sight. It’s not like he’s gonna hear from anyone else today. 

He can’t wait for January 2nd, really. To put the holidays behind him. To just get on with things. The sooner they go back to school, the sooner he can get the fuck out of here. Permanently. He hasn’t told them yet. That he applied to Dartmouth and Harvard and MIT and Brown and UNC and Georgetown. Places far away. Places with snow. Places _nothing_ like Beacon fucking Hills. 

He knows things will be ok with his dad again. Someday. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. Not being here lying to his face every three seconds should help smooth things over. He’s afraid, sometimes, not to be here to take care of his dad. But with Stiles gone, maybe his dad can stay out of werewolf bullshit and go back to policing actual humans. Stiles isn't close with Melissa anymore, but he knows she’ll call if he needs to come back.

He throws his head back and groans, already sick of his own bitching and complaining. He needs to get out of his own fucking head for awhile. He grabs a bottle of Jack and throws his lacrosse bag into the Jeep.

He paces himself because it’s gonna be a long night and this is his only bottle. At first he only takes a swig if he gets five shots in a row in the net. It deteriorates quickly, though. Soon enough he’s down on the grass, legs splayed out in front of him, a quarter of the whiskey already gone. He laughs pitifully and flops back, staring up at the stars. _Fuck_. 

He knows that the day could objectively be worse. He’s not bleeding or even running for his life. Maiming or murder aren’t imminent. So ... yay? Yeah, the bar for a “good” day is really fucking low now. He laughs again, bitter, but who the fuck cares? There’s no one around to hear him. "Merry fucking Christmas, Stiles," he screams. 

Yelling drains the energy right out of him. Now he’s feeling warm and fuzzy. Too lazy to even sit up to take another sip of this shitty-ass booze. He should slow down anyway. He can’t remember the last time he ate. He probably has some Funyuns in the Jeep. He wonders if the Chinese restaurant would deliver out here … 

Something makes him flinch. Shit. He must have fallen asleep. He pulls himself together and packs up before the patrol swings through. Thank god they’re on a predictable schedule. He’s sober now, which sucks. But at least he’s safe to drive. He doesn’t want to go back to the house, though. 

He breaks into the loft, instead. It’s still furnished, as though Derek might show back up one day. Maybe he’s planning to rent it out? Stiles hadn’t asked. 

He’s sitting in the dark, sprawled out on the couch. The Jack is tucked into his crotch and take-out containers are spread out in an arm’s-length arc around him. He might’ve gone a little overboard. But now he doesn’t have to make breakfast, either. 

He jumps when he hears the door open, barely keeping the bottle from tipping. Who the fuck would be coming here today? Or, really, ever anymore. 

“You better have an extra set of chopsticks or I’m keeping all this and kicking you out.” 

Stiles exhales loudly and his shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like _months_. If Stiles is going to have a shitty Christmas, at least now he can share it with someone who hates it as much as he does.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re having a shitty Christmas (or just a shitty day in general), I hope this is a little cathartic. And I hope you have someone to complain to about it if you want to. If you need to talk to someone who understands why “happy holidays” can be a shitty thing to hear, [hit me up on Tumblr](http://totally0random.tumblr.com). 
> 
> (Don’t worry about me. I’m having a fairly decent day, actually. The holidays are kind of a rollercoaster sometimes, though, you know?)
> 
> * [Wassail](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wassail) is a hot mulled cider drink.


End file.
